


pistol whipped

by Exaggerated_Specificity



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Abusive Song Lyrics, Exhibitionism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Not-Quite Infidelity, Scent Kink, Stripping, Teasing, Underage Jensen, Violent Song Lyrics, Voyeurism, hole spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-29 06:01:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12624771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Exaggerated_Specificity/pseuds/Exaggerated_Specificity
Summary: Someone put up a portable stripper pole in the Fuckpig bus’s ‘living room’ and bored little Jenny can’t help but try it out when he thinks everyone else is asleep. Turns out he’s got an audience. Good thing he doesn’t mind being watched.Song featured is "Pistol Whipped" by Marilyn Manson:https://youtu.be/SeMtOrsWO28I definitely recommend listening to it on repeat while you read.





	pistol whipped

**Author's Note:**

  * For [homo_pink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/homo_pink/gifts), [dollylux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollylux/gifts), [saltandbyrne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltandbyrne/gifts), [hellhoundsprey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/gifts).



Life on board a tour bus has a distinct set of positives and negatives.

Most days Jensen lives with his feet planted firmly in the positive column, perfectly content with his tiny niche in Fuckpig’s universe. Sure, it meant sharing very close quarters with some very large and often very fragrant people, lugging around sound equipment that weighed more than he did, and running to 7-Eleven for lube, laundry detergent, and Flamin’ Hot Cheetos at all hours of the night. Even so, Jensen would happily fold himself up origami-style and travel down in the cargo hold with the gear if he had to if it meant staying with Jared, being part of something bigger than himself.

Jensen keeps the few check-marks he’s scratched in the negative column to himself but there’s a lot of time to fill between show and sleep. Mostly, the could-be boredom of crisscrossing the highways of middle America melts away when there’s always something to suck, fuck, snort, watch or listen to. Mostly.

Right now though, it’s three in the morning, everyone else is sound asleep, and he really shouldn’t have had that last bump of coke before they’d rolled into the rest area. They were somewhere outside Boise and it was quiet and dark. There were no bright-white fluorescents outside to test the strength of their black-out blinds, no all-night diner or convenience store to occupy Jensen’s anxious mind.

Jared had crashed hours ago and even Jensen’s twenty-minute, all-stops-pulled attempt to nurse his dick hard again had failed. Coke high fading, bladder-full, and brain caffeine wired from the extra-large, extra shot Dunkin’ Donuts Almond Joy latte Adri treated him to at their last stop, Jensen finally extracts himself from between Jared and the wall of his bunk and wanders out into rarely quiet common area.

Even the fucking cat was asleep.

When Jensen’s bathroom-door-open, extra-loud, coffee scented piss didn’t seem to stir the natives he finds his way to the couch, plopping down on the side closest to the bus’s most recent decorative addition: a light up stripper pole.

Jensen extends his left leg and flips the switch at the base with his lavender-socked big toe, bathing the small, dingy space in twinkling rainbow light.

Jensen wasn’t entirely sure where the thing came from or who had installed it. He thinks it showed up when the bus broke down and they were stuck in Indianapolis for an extra night a few months back. He hadn’t even noticed it until they were 500 miles and two shows away from that Midwestern armpit. It was honestly surprising they hadn’t installed one sooner.

It reminded Jensen of one of those tacky, antique brass-toned spring rods that used to hold up the frilly ruffled shower curtains back at his mama’s house, only installed floor-to-ceiling instead of wall-to-wall. It was made of some kind of strong, see-through plastic with chrome fittings on either end. As an added feature, with the help of three AAA batteries, internal LED lights flashed and changed color. It was trashy as fuck and so obviously Jensen loved it.

For a while the bus became amateur stripper central. Every flavor of boy and girl had tried their hand at working the pole, some with more success than others. Sadly, the novelty had worn off sometime after their last stop in Vegas and now it was just one more prop in the booze-drenched, come-covered background of their lives. Rainbow twinkle lights or not. No one had paid it any attention in a while.

Lost in thought, Jensen toes off his socks one by one and extends his leg again, bringing the other one to join it this time, crisscrossing his feet at the ankles and letting the slightly damp pads of his toes skitter-stop along the smooth, clear surface of the pole. He watches the light play on his skin, his pale pink toenail polish changing color with the shifts, squirming as his tiny cutoffs start riding up between his bare ass cheeks. His recently and very well used hole aches from the friction. Fuck it.

Sure, no one was awake to watch but Jensen was such a little exhibitionist he’d be just as into it if the skanky little white tuft of fur curled up on the other side of the couch was his only audience. Snowball’s ear twitches and he stretches out his hind leg in his sleep. It was as good an invitation as any at this point.

Jensen gets up and tugs the frayed denim out of his ass crack before spreading his feet on the sticky floor and folding himself in half for a quick stretch. The coke and caffeine are still making his skin tingle so he runs his hands down his leg slowly before grabbing his right ankle. He flexes the muscles in his legs and tips his hips up and back, letting the stretch ripple all along his body before switching his grip to the other ankle and doing it one more time.

He goes upright again and puts his feet together, reaching his hands up toward the ceiling, linking his fingers and twisting his wrists, arching his back and pointing his toes to stretch like some kind of trailer-trash ballerina getting ready to take the stage.

He reaches for the pole then, wrapping his hands around it and giving it a long, slow stroke before tightening his grip and tipping back on his heels to let it take his weight. He tips his head back, letting it roll on his shoulders. In the pole’s glow he sees someone is seated at the kitchen table. A single red point of light, the cherry of Jeff’s cigarette, glows a little brighter as he sucks down a lungful of smoke.

“Don’t let me stop you,” Jeff says, the smirk on his shadowed face reads clear as day in the tone of his voice.

The music starts then, soft and low on Jeff’s phone. A grinding, pulsing, guitar riff that grows louder as he gets up from the kitchenette and walks slowly into the living room, an ashtray in one hand and his phone in the other. He moves with quiet carefulness, like he’s afraid Jensen will get spooked and run if he makes too quick a movement.

Jensen watches Jeff with as impassive of an expression as he can manage, unable to keep himself from the coy little grin that ends up painting his lips once Jeff sits down, his legs spread wide. Jeff sits the phone down on the cushion beside him one cushion over. The sound is tinny and muffled from its small, shitty speakers but it’s enough.

“I like this song,” Jensen says softly, stretching his arms above his head again, rolling his hips a little for Marilyn Manson’s filthy growl.

“Good,” Jeff grunts, his half-smoked cigarette dangling as he leans over to look at his phone. “Me too.”

He taps the screen a few times and then stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray before setting it down on the floor by his boot. The song starts over, on repeat now, and Jeff nudges up the volume a little more.

Jeff was here for a show and they both knew Jensen was more than willing to give it to him.

The song starts with Manson panting hot and heavy into the microphone. It’s sexy as fuck. Then the lyrics start, brutal and dirty, throbbing like a bruise. His voice sounds exactly how Jeff’s gaze feels on Jensen in this moment. It makes him chub up a little against the half-down zipper of his cutoffs.

 

_You look so pretty_

_When you cry_

_Don't wanna hit you_

_But the only thing_

_Between our love is_

_A bloody nose_

_Busted lip_

_And a black eye_

 

Jensen bites his lip, licking over a spot where it’s a little chapped, trying to bloody it again, hungry for that coppery taste to pair with the dark violence of Manson’s words.

He moves so he’s in profile to the couch to Jeff a good view. He gets his right hand around the pole and extends his left leg to push the slightly askew coffee table a bit more out of the way. He wants room to move.

 

_You're a little pistol_

_And I'm fucking pistol whipped_

 

Jensen pulls himself flush with the pole, pressing into it sternum to belly before he wraps his leg around and hooks his foot against it for stability. He leans back, peeling back from the pole in a pretty arch, his hips grinding his half-hard dick into the back of his zipper. He liked the bite of it and his insides throb in tune with the grinding guitar.

He shakes his would-be tits and then slinks himself upright again, reaching down to the hem of his black MANEATER tank top, slowly peeling it up and off. If he’d known this was on the menu for the night, he would have put something lacy or strappy on underneath his ratty clothes. Still, the silent, subtle games that he and Jeff played never seemed to need that extra flare. It was raw and secret and hole-clenching, all look and no touch. It didn’t have to be pretty. Not for Jeff. From what Jensen could tell, he preferred it not to be.

 

_When I undo my belt_

_You melt and you walk away_

_With a red, red, red welt_

_(Or so they say)_

 

The too-loud clank of the buckle on Jeff’s cheap nylon-web belt makes Jensen smile like a Cheshire cat and that spot in his lip he’s been gnawing finally splits open again as he tosses his shirt to the floor.

He laps at the metallic salt of his own blood and works the pole like it’s Jared’s dick. He dips down low and pops his ass out, the seam of his shorts biting into his balls and raking over his cunt lips as he sways his hips back and forth in tune with the song.

 

_I wanna have your ache_

_And beat you too_

_I wanna have your ache_

_And beat you too_

_I wanna have your ache_

_And beat you too_

 

God, this was such a fucking _Jeff_ song. When Jared was up later maybe Jensen would try to convince him that Fuckpig should cover it live. Only he and Jeff would know why it was special.

The song loops back to the beginning and Jensen turns to face his audience, his back to the pole now, one arm up high holding him on his tip toes, his body a long, lean line against it. He slides his other hand down between his tits, over his flat little hairless belly and down into his cutoffs to adjust his stiffy. He angles it so the tip peeks out just above the ‘V’ of zipper where he’d used a pair of pliers to crimp the slider into place.

He drags his fingers in a slow ‘S’ up the teeth of the zipper and over the oozing tip of his little pink dick just as Manson reminds Jensen how pretty he looks when he cries. Like Jared would ever let him forget. Teary eyes and a runny nose were synonymous with Jensen’s weeping slit.

He sucks the precome from his fingertips and rolls his shoulders, looking down at his flat little chest that’s presently glowing violet in the ever-changing light. The slightly wet slapping sound of Jeff beating off to his teasing makes Jensen’s nipples hard.

 

_You're a little pistol_

_And I'm fucking pistol whipped_

_You're a little pistol_

_And I'm fucking pistol whipped_

 

He twirls to face the pole again, both hands on it, sliding down, down, down until he’s ass up, shoulders down at knee level. He plants his bare feet wide and lets his entire body start writhing to the music again. The tiny strip of jean material isn’t enough to keep Jensen’s tight little balls contained. The fabric slides over to the right of them and drags cruelly across Jensen’s ass crack as he moves. He reaches one hand back and hooks it in the material, pulling it aside fully, giving Jeff the completely uncensored view of his jailbait bits.

Jeff was seated only a few feet away, so close that he could probably see the stubble starting to grow in on Jensen’s taint, smell Jared’s come curing deep up in his guts.

“Fuck,” Jeff huffs, jacking his dick in earnest now.

Jensen can feel the rush of Jeff’s breath on the swollen pink he’s flashing and his eyes slip shut with a shudder. He’d fucking kill for a tongue up his ass right now, the sloppy grind of rough stubble to mar his most tender parts. For now he’d have to settle for the spit-slicked slap of his own skinny fingers. Satan willing, once he’d had his fun here, Jensen would climb back up into Jared’s bunk and sink down directly onto his baby’s morning wood.

He wraps his left arm around the pole and pulls himself up a little, turning to look at Jeff before letting go of it and making a big show of sliding his fingers, locked in a scout’s salute, knuckle deep into mouth. He pets them roughly over his tongue, poking at his tonsils to trigger his gag reflex a little and fill his mouth with saliva. He pulls them out slow, letting a long string of spit connect the tip of his index finger to his lip, watching it catch the light as it shifts from green back into pink.

Manson’s panting at the start of the song again. Perfect.

Jensen puts his weight back onto his heels and reaches back to pull his jeans aside again, the fingers of his other hand dripping spit onto the floor. His ass is still tipped up, his hole bared, and the biggest, baddest Daddy he’s ever seen is watching his every move. It wasn’t gonna take much.

The sound of Jensen’s fingers slapping hard and wet over his cunt is so loud that he swears it echoes of dingy walls. Jensen does it again anyway, even harder. Fuck, it hurts so fucking good. He forces his watery eyes open to watch Jeff over his shoulder, stroking his fat dick for him in the pretty glow of the sparkling stripper pole.

Jensen hisses involuntarily on the third slap. He presses his fingers down hard over his throbbing hole, rubbing at it to try and ease the sting. He can smell Jeff’s sweat, that musky hint of yeast that came part and parcel with wearing jeans as snug as Jeff’s tended to be. His mouth is watering, his rim is aching, so he pushes his fingers in, pad first. He loses it then, teeth sinking into his bloody lip to help bite back the yelp he makes as he shoots his load, hands-free, onto the floor between his feet.

He sags against the pole, grabbing it with his free hand and panting, knees going wobbly. His fingertips are still inelegantly spearing his rhythmically clenching hole as he hears Jeff grunt behind him, his only reward for a job well done. He stays bent over, breathing hard, with his knees locked and one sweaty palm tightly gripping the plastic pole as he comes down from the rush.

He can hear Jeff rustle behind him, standing up and walking into the kitchen while Manson continues growling filth into Jensen’s ears. Jensen watches as Jeff slings the come out of his palm into the tiny kitchen sink. It makes a laughably loud splash among the abandoned hair-dye bowls and mostly empty spaghetti-o cans.

Jensen rights himself, taking care not to step in the puddle of jizz shining gold then purple then blue near the chrome base of the stripper pole. He reaches for his abandoned tank top and mops it up, sucking spit and ass off his fingers before he chucks the shirt back onto the floor next to his abandoned socks.

“Night, Jeff,” he says quietly, licking his lips and hazarding a little smirk his way.

“Night, kid,” Jeff replies, slapping Jensen’s ass gently as he passes on his way to Jared’s bunk. “Hope you can get some shuteye now.”

 

~~~

 

Jeff comes back to the couch and scoops up his phone, shutting off the music and sliding it into his back pocket before zipping up his jeans, ignoring the belt.

Snowball is spread out now on the couch on his side, eyes mostly closed, a look on his face as serene as Jeff’s own as he sinks back onto his still-warm cushion. The cat starts purring loudly as Jeff sinks his hand into his soft, white fur.

“Quite a show. Huh, buddy?” Jeff whispers as he reaches into his shirt pocket and drags a Camel out of the nearly empty pack. “Well, I won’t tell if you won’t.”

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the following Coven convo:
> 
> E: the bus needs a stripper pole. Even if there’s not that much room to do cool tricks, the bus needs a stripper pole. Just a simple one that locks in place by pressure, nothing serious. But maybe one of the ones that has rainbow lights in it too.  
> M: little Jensen slinking around on it. Maybe he thinks he’s alone and everyone is sleeping so he’s being all fantasy sexy. Doesn’t realize he has an audience.  
> L: Jeff. Jacking off as he watches Jensen. Jensen teasing back. No touching, no talking. Silently egging one another on.  
> E: Jensen opening the button on his ratty shorts, enough that Jeff can see he’s not wearing panties; hardly ever is. Jensen starts dancing to some music that’s playing soft and low on Jeff’s phone. Jared asleep in his bunk, dick used just a few hours ago and still smelling like Jensen. But Jensen is awake now at 3am not making noise, not saying a word, but fucking Jeff with his eyes and watching every movement Jeff’s hand makes in his pants…  
> M: Jared never knows. Jenny crawls back into bed with him and Jeff sprawls out on the couch rubbing his empty balls and dreaming while he smokes.  
> E: The only one who saw what happened was Snowball and Snowball ain’t saying shit. He’s Jared’s bro but he ain’t a snitch.


End file.
